A very unorthodox horror game

So, for those of you who are 'up' on the way things are - you may know that I am currently involved in a Call of Cthulhu game with some guys in Bury. Additionally, some of you may have already heard tall tales about how utterly barmy the game has become, and how utterly ludicrous the story has turned out.

Which, of course, brings me to point out that there is, in fact, basically no story. Things have been going so... interestingly... that every member of the group is now well into their 2nd, 3rd or even 6th character by now.

And now, onto my point: Though it is late, tonight's game has been a classic and I feel the need to record a few things before I forget them in the haze of caffeine that will likely fuel me through tomorrow morning.

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For reasons best left unmentioned, I will not write out the entire scenario - as it is rather... strange and nonsensical, in a sort of Terry Pratchett way (and not the H.P.Lovecraft way it is supposed to be!).

Our party of Gentleman Explorers has just arrived in French Algeria, circa 1879 aboard a steamship. We are told by our resident French Sergeant (tis a French ship, doncha know!) to keep a low profile, rustle up some bearers for our equipment and food for a trek ready to march through the desert to investigate some ruins following the discovery of a strange Statue in a previous adventure session.

Emphasis on low profile.

So we travel into the town around the docks and 'rustle up' some help - Picking from a line up 24 men (each of the 4 characters picked 6). We ended up with 18 big strong black types, and 6 mad cannibalistic pygmies... Thats the last time I let the obese Yorkshireman decide on anything of importance, ever again. Ten minutes later we'd also gained a fat woman and her beanpole daughter, a goat with broken legs (done so by the Yorkshireman as well), and a Tuareg Fighting Camel.

Now, the following series of events unfolded rather rapidly, and the situation quickly fell out of control. In the process of fetching some lunch, one of the Pygmies took an unhealthy like to my Cambridge-bred Anthropologist (and, conveniently the only person who could speak Arabic in the group). The pygmy took a bullet to the head, and the camel started barrelling around excitedly. Ushering the rest of the natives outside so we can have space to take a table and order some food, Eric (myself) drags the dead pygmy outside, where his former companions start eating him... in the street. This in turn draws the attention of two Arabs who pick a fight with Eric. Eric's friend Horace then comes to his aid - and in short order a fight breaks out...

People start to take bets.

Eric tries to fade into the background as Horace pulls out a gun and shoots one of the Arabs, only to have his second shot go so wildly awry that it wings the Camel and drives it into an Infidel-Killing rampage. And... of course, everyone knows that Tuareg Fighting Camels cannot be stopped once they get a good look at their prey... In this case, us.

So, one dead Horace later, the lunch-shop is destroyed by the weight of a rampaging camel. Samuel, sporting a sawn-off shotgun, sees off the two Arabs - but not before Eric has been grievously wounded and is lying in a bloody, camel-stampeded heap on the floor. Counting their losses, the party manage to redirect the Camel onto the gambling crowd of spectators, starting a riot - and then make a hasty getaway with the unconscious Eric in tow.

A fire springs up. People start to stampede down the streets, screaming about a Fighting Camel on the loose.

There is a small explosion in the distance, and a roar of an angry camel.

The party flee back towards the ship - but not before the Yorkshireman stops in a broken down house and is pursuaded into buying the three daughters of an Arab local, who are promptly 'married' to the fat bastard and given a swift lesson on how Yorkshire is God's Country.

And I quote: "Oh dear... I'm gonna have to clear this one with t'missus when we get back 'ome." (Mark, as the Yorkshireman).

Eric spends the rest of the session unconscious, but I'm happy to stay that way - if only because it means I get to watch the following from a spectator position (and most of the time I'm rolling on the table in hysterics).

Horace's replacement, Adam, meets the Yorkshireman and Samuel as they arrive back at the ship. After leaving Eric in the care of the somewhat un-sober care of the french ships surgeon, they return to the deck with their Ace - the Elephant Gun, and set up to wait for the Fighting Camel, should it come looking for them.

Yes, an elephant gun. It took two of them to load it, and another one to 'spot' with a sightglass. This thing is... enormous, like a 60cal rifle and a supersized shotgun rolled into one. In fact, it takes them three attempts to get the damn thing loaded right! There are numerous snickered remarks from the French crew who gather to watch three incompetant english gentlemen trying to load this enormous weapon. Adam makes mention that the steamship should probably count as a Warship with this thing on board.

Night falls, and it becomes difficult to see the docks. Samuel, having loaded the gun, takes the sight glass and watches the docks for signs of Camel.

I should probably point out now that Tuareg Fighting Camels are special beasts of almost mythical prowess. This thing killed 5 people and got shot three times before escaping into the town previously. Its teeth have been replaced with razor sharp metal, and its hide is marked with many bullet-scars where it was raised and taught not to fear firearms. We figure we're in for a rough night.

Samuel catches sight of a glint of metal on the docks in the gloom. He can't be sure, but he thinks its the camel's teeth! The Yorkshireman, at the trigger, doesn't bother to wait for confirmation. The sound of this gun going off deafens all three Gentlemen on deck, and blinds them in a cloud of gunpowder smoke. Samuel's sleeve is singed by the backblast and the Yorkshireman is knocked flat on his back.

Several Frenchmen appear on deck, waving their arms and gesticulating wildly. I should reiterate that none of the three can hear anything, and they played the part wonderfully. On one side of the table I have the GM, John, waving his arms and mouthing things in french. On the other side I have the Yorkshireman (mark) and Samuel (pete) who are shouting (literally shouting) loudly over one another as if they can't hear.

Mark: "Did we get him?"
Pete: "What?!"
Mark: "No, no, Tuesday!"
Pete: "Where'd that damn Camel go?"

They look to John, who, as a Frenchman, has angrily stuck two fingers up at the Englishmen.

Mark: "Shit, there's two of 'em!"
Pete: "Two? Reload, reload!"

They reload the Elephant gun; deaf, partially blind, and far too excited. Samuel forgets to remove the ramrod and gives two thumbs up to the YOrkshireman - who swings to face port (unable to see anything) and fires again with a dreadful boom.

The next few minutes unravel in confusion as the deck is swamped in gunpowder smoke, more of the crew arrive on deck, and people's hearing begins to return. All people can hear is screams and shouts and gibberish (remember, only the unconscious Eric speaks Arabic) coming from the docks area. Unsure of whether they got the Camel, or whether there even was a camel, the Yorkshireman shouts out in French to the docks.

Mark: "Is it the Camel?"
John, a reply comes back from an Arab speaking French: "The Camel? Tuareg Fighting Camel? OH SHIT, ITS THE CAMEL! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES?!"

The image of a Tuareg FIghting Camel is bad enough. The image of a Tuareg Fighting Camel with an Elephant Gun, firing indiscriminantly into the crowd is even worse.

All breaks down into chaos again. Samuel loads the gun again, this time with a makeshift ramrod - a broom handle. The French on board start to gather, and one of them has his trousers down. The Yorkshireman, honour-bound to a fault decides that this Frenchman has been committing nasty deeds with his new 'wives', and swings on the crew. In his excitement, the Elephant Gun in his hands 'goes off'.

Everyone goes deaf and blind again for five minutes. The smoke clears finally, and the deck is French-free.

Realising that the rest of his ammunition is down in his cabin, the Yorkshireman decides to call it a day - and calls off the Camel Watch for the night. They retire, and so do we - ready to see the damage we dealt to the docks when the morning (next week) comes along.